Blues
by Rocio Senalda
Summary: R/H. "I'll paint my moon in shades of blue/Paint my soul, to be with you." (This is what I call POWER angst.)
1. Of Crossed Lines & Missed Signs

****

BLUES

a fic by Rocio

Rating: Eh, I'll go with PG-13 for now.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and am not fiscally responsible for the trash in which I am preparing to mire them. Lyrics belong to Celine Dion. (Yes, I am ashamed.)

Author's Notes: This is set in Harry & co.'s seventh year. Voldemort is still lurking around, randomly employing torture and homicide as a source of power, wealth and entertainment. Although we all know stuff was bound to happen between the fourth and seventh years, let's just pretend that it wasn't very eventful and that all the characters are in the exact same emotional positions they assumed at the end of GoF. My only difference is that now Harry's gang says Voldemort's name. Capiche?

* * * * *

__

I'll paint my moon in shades of blue/Paint my soul, to be with you.

* * * * *

The rain's monotonous pattering on the windows afforded a vast, hard comfort to the harsh quiet of the Gryffindor common room. Sunday evenings usually found the area glowing with activity and chatter, but dull classes and a pervading armor of numbness had weaned it of its amicability and left it with just another frosty, silent October night.

Several young witches had sprawled themselves in easy chairs with textbooks, and a few lone couplings of first and second years were attempting chess. This was the extent of enthralling teenage pandemonium within sight; Ron Weasley found himself desperately wishing that his twin brothers, Fred and George, could have been there.

At the very least, his friend and partner-in-anxiety, Hermione Granger, could have spared some of her thoughts and given him a conversation. Hermione, however, had adopted a soundless strain of worry very atypical of her. She glared out the window, trying vainly to penetrate the layers of darkness and falling water. 

"What time is it?"

Her voice had grown hoarse from disuse, and it startled him. He jerked involuntarily, caught himself, made a mental note to be less jittery ("...never going to defeat Voldemort if HERMIONE scares you!..."), and checked his watch, the worn leather band of which was perilously near splitting.

"Nine o'clock."

She accepted this phlegmatically, not even bothering to shift her gaze from the uneventful skyline.

He sighed.

Minutes resisted, relaxed, and melted away into irretrievability. Ron sensed their passing acutely, but Hermione was oblivious. He felt his concern for her slide up, as the ever-present serpent he had come to personify it; only October, and already Hermione was too tired to really BE Hermione...

This musing was interrupted by the opening of the portrait hole. Ron would have sworn he heard Hermione's neck pop as her head swiveled to observe...

Harry Potter, absolutely coated in mud, absolutely diminutive in his soaked clothing, absolutely fearless and somewhat bitter in his "old age" of seventeen. Harry, torn between scorn and reverence toward his identity; Harry, whose ambivalence manifested itself physically in ways he never would've noticed.

"Hey, guys," he said, strolling towards their corner. His step had acquired a weight over the past years; Ron didn't know if this was the weight of being seventeen or the weight of being Harry or the weight of consistent maturity beyond their years. Whatever. It was heavier.

"Harry! Don't you think you ought to be finishing Quidditch practice earlier than this?" Hermione greeted him.

"We have to get in practice any way we can, since Snape's taken to letting the Slytherins monopolize the field during daylight hours." If possible, he looked more unhappy than Hermione about the situation, but he was also wearing what Ron mentally termed the Resolute Martyr Face.

"But surely you can go to Dumbledore –"

"Tried it."

"But that doesn't seem –"

"Yeah, I know, can we just not talk about it?" He sank into a chair across from Ron.

Hermione opened her mouth to start in again. "But it's not safe –"

Ron, who didn't especially enjoy crossing her in the same way he had a few years ago, snapped to just drop it, already. Hermione, who mostly knew the boundaries of Ron's temper by then, did as she was told.

It was Hermione who began the "remember when..." conversation. They talked of summers at the Burrow, and past Christmas gifts that seemed so absurd now; they discussed their childhoods, shared and separate, accepting as they did so that it was a memory and not a present condition anymore. Ron's recollection of first meeting Hermione was so clearly engraved upon his mind, that he couldn't help but do a mocking impression of it. She playfully launched a textbook at his head in retaliation; to her surprise, he didn't duck it, and it connected with his temple in a THUMP.

"OW! Bloody HELL, Hermione!"

His reaction, coupled with Hermione's mixed look of horror and hilarity, caused Harry to break into a surging chord of laughter.

"Ohh, Ron, I'm – don't swear –"

"DAMN! NOW I know why you carry books heavy enough to break your back!"

"I really didn't mean –"

"You're trying to break my HEAD with them! It's your secret plan, isn't it?" he roared, rubbing his injury spitefully.

She giggled, attempted to apologize again, gave it up and giggled more. Hers and Harry's amusement made it worthwhile; nobody was really that cheery anymore.

Hours later, when he finally eased himself into a tentative sleep, that was what he carried with him: his two very best friends, laughing and sitting around a fire, like the kids they had been before this mess. He didn't know it then, but he had a feeling that he'd carry that image for a long time to come.

* * * * *

The following morning dawned with an encouraging brightness, and Hermione woke determined to experience an extraordinary – or at least better-than-normal – day. She had a warm shower that unwound her muscles; she pulled on her favorite azure sweater and drew her hair into a bushy ponytail. She thought happy, positive thoughts. She hummed a nameless, ageless melody remembered from a Muggle television show years ago.

She arrived at breakfast unscathed and seated herself next to Ginny Weasley. Even the Daily Prophet's myriad casualty reports could not deter her rather forced joviality.

That is, until Ron and Harry appeared for breakfast. 

"Morning," she said brightly, taking a bite of her toast. 

"Whatever," grumbled Ron sleepily. He leaned over Hermione to look at her schedule and accidentally poured cold pumpkin juice right down the front of her robes. She jumped up, startled.

"Watch what you're doing!"

"Just go change," he retorted nonchalantly. She grabbed an apricot and raced upstairs. By the time she managed to get back down again, everyone had left, including Harry and Ron. Frantically, she ran catch up with the rest of the seventh year Gryffindors on their way to Potions. In fact, she rushed so quickly that she hardly noticed where she was going until she crashed headlong into... Argus Filch. 

"Miss _Granger!_" he shouted, brushing her off. "You again! As Head Girl, YOU ought to be setting a better EXAMPLE! Running about in the corridors, banging into people with enough force to knock out a mountain troll... tsk tsk... yes, you shall have to be punished." 

Hermione groaned inwardly. Filch began to lead her to his office. 

"Um, Mr. Filch?" she tried. "I'm really very, very sorry, but could I please come and get my punishment some other time, please? You see, I'm kind of late for class and you know how Professor Snape is when people are late –"

"Oh yes, I do," he snarled. "It'll serve you right. Come along."

Filch took much longer preparing her punishment than could be considered reasonable. By the time she was finally free, Hermione was ten minutes late for class. She _walked_ as quickly as possible to the dungeon, which just happened to be on the opposite end of the castle, and arrived to discover that Snape was in a particularly nasty mood that morning. 

"Well, well, if it isn't our very own bright, shining intellectual star, come to join us at long last." The joy in his voice was revolting. Pansy Parkinson snickered gleefully. 

"Yes, sir, you see, I had to go and change my robes because I got pumpkin juice on them, and then I was trying to get here and I ran into –"

"Silence!" sneered her professor. "As captivating as I'm sure that your tale of woe is bound to be, I'm not in the mood to entertain dramatic performances. Tardiness is an unmistakable sign of blatant disrespect and I will not tolerate it! We will discuss your detention after class, now if you will please get started on the lesson..." 

A nearly unbearable eighty minutes later, Hermione met with Ron and Harry outside the classroom. 

"What happened?" asked Ron.

"I have two detentions, one tonight and one tomorrow night, one from Filch and one from Snape, and they're both your fault!" she spouted rather testily.

"_My _fault?" 

"Yes, your fault."

"And how is that?"

"If you hadn't spilled juice all down my front this morning, I wouldn't have had to go and change. If I hadn't had to go and change, I wouldn't have had to run to class and wouldn't have, literally, run into Filch. And if that hadn't happened, I wouldn't have been late. Do you not see how this is your fault?"

"It is not. You probably spent a bunch of extra time getting dressed, fixing your hair and the like," argued Ron stubbornly. 

"_Fixing my hair_?" 

"Well, yeah," he said, slightly uncomfortable. "Girls do that. It takes them half an hour at least, and it'd probably take you even longer." 

Instantly, he knew he'd gone too far. Hermione's eyes flashed angrily. "Oh REALLY, and why is that?" 

"Well... I mean, because your hair has... more volume?" 

Without a word, she stormed off down the corridor. Ron gaped after her.

"What just happened here?" he asked Harry.

"Beats me. I'd say you crossed the line."

"The line?"

"Yeah. You know, the line."

"There's a line?"

"Uh-huh. Never make a negative comment about a girl's physical features."

"But it wasn't negative."

"She obviously thought it was."

"It was merely a factual statement. Her hair DOES have more volume." Ron tore his eyes from her back to look at Harry. "And how do you know this stuff, anyway?"

Harry shrugged. "Television?"

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I reckon we ought to get one of those at the Burrow."

"Yeah." Harry clapped his bewildered friend on the back. "You'll make it up with her somehow. C'mon, we've got to get to Divination." 

* * * * *

At eight o'clock that night, Hermione found herself giving all the broom closets on the fourth floor at least two coats of paint manually. It was messy, back-breaking work, and she knew she'd be at it until at least midnight, and probably later. Damn Ron Weasley. 

"Hermione? You in here?"

Damn him all to hell. 

"Go away. Can't you see I'm trying to subdue my wild mane and can't be bothered?" 

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Or maybe you'd just like to get me another detention."

"I want to help you."

"_Help _me?" Her brush strokes quickened considerably. "I woke up this morning perfectly resolved to have a nice day. You then proceed to dump breakfast all over me, make me late for class, secure me two _wonderful_ detentions, and insult my hair! I think you've helped quite enough, thank you." 

He sighed resignedly and sank down onto an empty crate. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? You're not the only one on edge lately, you know."

She glanced down at him and realized that she didn't really have the energy to be angry. 

"Oh, get up. If you're so bent on helping, there's another brush over there."

He grabbed the brush and rolled up his sleeves. For the next four hours, they painted walls beside each other, and even though they hardly said a word, Hermione found herself thinking that maybe the day hadn't been such a waste after all.

* * * * *

The next night, Ron again joined Hermione in scrubbing the dungeon floors at an ungodly hour. It was excruciating, and the floors looked as though no one had washed them since the 16th century. 

"Ron?" 

"Yeah?"

"Why are you helping me?"

He would have shrugged, but he was too busy wiping furiously at some dried pickled pig brains that had apparently been cemented to the floor. "I dunno. I wanted to... I crossed a line."

"A line?"

"Yeah." Ron's ears turned slightly pink. "I mean, that remark about your hair... that was a crossed line there."

"I would agree."

"And it was partially my fault you got detention in the first place."

"Partially?"

He grinned. "Okay, totally."

"Yes."

They worked in companionable silence for another five minutes. 

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you going to do when we get out of here?"

"Out of detention?"

"No, out of Hogwarts."

"I don't know." He paused. "I mean, I don't like to think about it. Because, you know, the uncertainty..."

"Yeah."

"What about you? You have any plans?"

"Oh, I don't know. I mean, I used to have all these big ideas for what I would do. First female Minister of Magic, or something. But now I know better."

"You could be." 

She snorted expressively. "Yeah. There we go. That'd be so accepted by the magical world, wouldn't it? A Muggle-born – and a woman – controlling everything. And in times like these..." 

"Well. I guess. But people are stupid."

"Yeah."

"It's gonna be so weird. Getting out of here." 

"More than weird. It'll be surreal. I can't imagine it any other way than the way it is, you know?" 

"Yeah. Where'll we go? We'll never even see each other anymore. I mean, maybe like, once a year. That's just wrong."

"I can't even begin to fathom life without you and Harry." 

A casual observer might have noticed a slight pause before 'and Harry,' but Ron didn't.

"Who's going to tell me to study all the time?" 

"Who's going to beat me at chess constantly?"

"Who's going to whack me in the head with textbooks?"

"Who can I blow up at when I'm angry?"

"Who will tell me not to swear?"

"Who will get me into detention?"

"There is no detention in Real Life."

"There are equivalents. Like prison."

"We only have seven months left."

She shuddered. "Seven months... and then what? What about... where can Harry go? He's going to be in danger."

"So will we."

"I don't like to think about that."

"We'll have to soon enough."

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"D'you think... d'you think that maybe one day... we'll defeat him? Forever?"

He would have loved to say that of course they would, that he saw victory as surely as her beauty, that there was no way they _couldn't_ win, but he had promised himself to always tell the truth with her. And she could tell when he was lying anyway. Plus, the whole beauty thing would have been too sappy and forward and he would NEVER say that.

"I don't know. I don't know if we can."

"I guess no one does." 

Neither one of them felt warm to conversation after that.

* * * * *

Friday rolled around, and with it came the first Quidditch game of the season – Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Harry came to breakfast looking frantic.

"I wish your brothers were here," he told Ron. "They were good Beaters." He glanced over at Seamus Finnigan and Rain Scott, his new Beaters. "I mean, Seamus and Rain are fine. But they're not Fred and George... at all..." 

"I saw your practice last night," piped up Ginny, "and I think you're all doing fine."

Harry smiled weakly at her. 

"'Xactly," said Ron through his toast. "Don't worry about it, chap. You're gonna kick Malfoy's –"

"Ron! How many times have I told you –" Hermione interjected.

"Yeah, yeah... But seriously Harry, you're a pro by now."

He sighed. "Well maybe not that, but I have played a lot of games... and I shouldn't be nervous, I just have a bad feeling about this one. You know?"

Ginny and Hermione exchanged anxious looks; Harry's "bad feelings" were usually spot on target. Ron shrugged.

* * * * *

By dinner, Harry had grown extremely pale. Draco Malfoy, of course, took advantage of the opportunity.

"Scared, Potter?" he scoffed as he walked by the Gryffindor table with Crabbe and Goyle. Harry made no response because Professor Snape chose that moment to saunter by for no identifiable reason. 

"You know what, guys?" said Harry after he had passed. "I think I'm going to go down to the locker rooms now. Maybe get in a little practice before the game..."

When he was out of hearing distance, Hermione turned to Ron. 

"He'd better win. He'd just better. I haven't seen him this nervous since..."

"...before the Yule Ball," finished Ron.

"Well, actually, I was going to say his first Quidditch match, but if you say so," shrugged Hermione. 

"It's a guy thing."

"If you say so," she repeated. "I'm going to go finish up my last bit of Transfiguration."

He rolled his eyes. "At a moment like this..."

"I don't want to be distracted during the game."

"How _could _you be?"

"See you in a bit."

* * * * *

Half an hour later, Hermione went down to the Great Hall and found only a few last diners, none of which were Ron. Figuring he had already went down to the field without her, she headed out to the stands. 

She scanned the crowd. No red hair came to her attention, so she sat down by Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown. They told her that no, they hadn't seen Ron since dinner, but they were sure he'd turn up. She tried her best not to notice when they winked at each other behind her back. 

The two teams paraded out onto the field. Even from her position at the top of the bleachers, Hermione could see Harry looking as though he might retch at any moment. Draco was laughing, and the Gryffindor Beaters were taunting him, but it only caused him to laugh harder. 

"GO HARRY!!!!" cheered Hermione, in what Ron called her Determined-To-Be-Perky Voice. Harry glanced at her and gave a thumbs up. She grinned, and suddenly realized that she didn't see Ginny anywhere either.

Oh no. 

No. No. _No._

Maybe they were just late. It was possible.

Ron. Late to a Quidditch game. Late to one of _Harry's _Quidditch games. No way.

Without stopping to give an explanation to Parvati and Lavender, Hermione jumped off the bleachers and dashed to the castle just as the teams lifted off. 

* * * * *

Hermione prayed to every deity she could recall on her way to the common room; for the first time in her life, she was praying to be wrong. More and more lately, students had been summoned from class to be given the news that someone in their family had been killed. Siblings were always told together. 

As big as the Weasley family was... it was pretty possible that one of them had been – 

No. No way.

Hermione ran straight up to the girls' dormitory as soon as the reached the empty common room, to check if Ginny was there. No such luck.

She couldn't go back down to the Quidditch field. It would only cause her to fidget and worry, and her intuition told her that something wasn't right about this situation. If anything had happened – well, she just had to be there. 

Patience was her only choice. Hermione grabbed a book and sat down by window. She could barely see the tiny figures darting around and above each other out on the distant field.

* * * * *

It was at least fifteen minutes, probably more, before Hermione heard the portrait hole swing open. She uncoiled her body from the chair and was on her feet in an instant.

It was Ron. He looked absolutely awful, with hair standing on end and an expression of complete shock. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. 

"You waited."

"Yeah."

"You shouldn't have done that," he said, walking toward her slowly. "You're missing the game."

"Well, yeah. Harry'll win anyways."

"Yeah."

"Ron –"

"Fred and George." He pronounced his brothers' names carefully, like the words were frail porcelain. "He got Fred and George." 

She swallowed hard. The air around her suddenly felt cold. 

"It was just six hours ago, Hermione." Ron's eyes were locked on hers, and she could see the pain there. "We were in Care of Magical Creatures at the exact moment my brothers were killed. They were just making lunch. There was peanut butter and jelly on the counter. They were making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Hermione, and they just – they were just –"

In complete abandonment of pretense or forethought, Hermione fairly hurled herself at him and clung; it was undoubtedly the most desperate hug she had ever given anyone, and she wasn't even sure he noticed.

He did notice, but there were a few seconds of uncertain numbness when he couldn't react or speak. When did get his bearings, she was a little surprised; usually tension braced his entire body during her moments of "unrefined girliness," but now he was relaxing into the embrace almost unconsciously. His head sank almost to her shoulder; she couldn't be sure, but she thought she felt his hands shaking on the small of her back.

The human mind is truly an astounding instrument. It constantly seeks the most vibrant, energetic and tenacious of the people around it; it labels these people "protectors." From the moment this subconscious identity is assigned to them, they are thought invincible. At some point, though, the true insecurity must be exposed, and the shock is electric and disillusioning. 

That is what happened to Hermione. The most fervent passions of her life paled in comparison to the desire she felt to help, to _save_ Ron in that moment.

And she felt so _much _that it seemed to leak. Her sorrow and anger and denial fell in miniature torrents from her eyes; her compassion and sympathy and – there was no other fitting description – _love _for him bled through her own skin and into his heart, or so her incredibly delirious mind imagined.

He might have concurred, because his nausea and raging pulse were at least a little calmed by proximity to her. He was also in the process of theorizing that the scent of her hair contained oblivion-inducing properties similar to those of morphine.

Finally, he raised his head just enough to make it about an inch from hers. For the longest time, they'd each privately wanted a moment like this. Now that they had it, it wasn't about romance or really even love. It was about finding solace in another person. Gently, he lowered his lips and pressed them to hers.

Shy and cautious, for a second neither of them knew quite what they were doing or what would happen next. But then, either because they realized how much they wanted it or because it was a desperate attempt to escape from their sorrow, the connection deepened. Hermione felt Ron's arms tighten around her waist; she responded, pulling him closer, if that was possible. For one instant that might have stretched into nirvana if not for human boundaries, they were only aware rushing blood in their ears; then they broke apart, and the silence resumed its reign. Hermione lifted her dazed eyes to Ron's and suddenly realized that she couldn't do this. She couldn't, she _wouldn't _be the instrument of his grief. It was just too much to ask. 

"Ron..." Her voice was barely a whisper, but the objection came through clearly enough. He disentangled his body from hers without stepping away.

"Hermione, no," he said, his voice straining to make her see that she was wrong. "It's not like what you're thinking. It's more than that, you're more than that." When she continued to look at him dubiously, he sighed. "All right, yeah, I'm in shock right now, I can't – can't talk about this right now, but can we talk later? Please?"

She nodded. "Um, yeah. Sure. Um, where's Ginny?"

Ron ran a hand over his eyes. "She fainted," he choked. "They've got her up in the hospital wing for the night. They told me to come back here, but I wanted to stay... I think I might have yelled a little bit. It hit her – pretty hard."

Vaguely, Hermione considered going to see her friend, but one look at Ron convinced her he needed all the support he could get. When he spoke again, his voice was distant.

"The Quidditch crowd will be here in a minute." Noise. People. Too many people, yelling and commotion. "I'm going up the dorms where it's quiet. Come with me?" 

Ron outstretched a hand, feeling he needed to hold onto something and it might as well be her. Hermione took it and followed him up the staircase without a word.

Outside, it began to rain.

* * * * *


	2. Directionless

****

BLUES

Rating: PG-13 (People DO sleep together in this chapter...)

Disclaimer: Nope, still aren't mine, as much as I wish Ron and Percy were.

Author's Note: Wow! You actually came to the second chapter! Thanks! A LOT! :)

* * * * *

It is very difficult to love someone who is in pain.

It is impossible to see that person wounded and not receive the sting twofold. The only cure needed is one not available, and it is impossible to verbalize what longs to be said.

This was, Hermione decided, the most essentially truthful lesson she would ever learn.

Of course, she was sitting on Ron's bed in Ron's dormitory beside Ron, with Ron's kiss still pretty much engraved on her lips; so many thoughts were revolving madly around in her head that it was difficult to really catch one.

She snagged a dim reminder of Harry and held it, chastising herself bitterly. Kissing Ron, and Harry didn't even KNOW that these boys who had almost been _his_ brothers were dead? Unforgivable. 

That was when she looked over and discovered that Ron had fallen asleep next to her, and she forgot everyone else again, because he looked almost more troubled now than he had awake. His skin was gauze-like in color; his eyebrows were furrowed together in his customary expression of bemusement, and he was sweating fiercely. She considered rousing him, but decided that he was probably going to need all the rest he could get in the weeks and months to come.

She bowed her head briefly, the sole gesture of mourning for which there was time. Then she squared her shoulders, rolled away from Ron, and went in search of Harry.

The Quidditch crowd had gathered as Ron had predicted, with the happy, victorious cacophony that had become so familiar to the Gryffindors over the years. On her way down the stairs, Seamus knocked haphazardly into her shoulder.

"Sorree, Herm-oh-nee," he slurred. Obviously he'd had a LOT of something strongly alcoholic.

"Right, it's okay," she murmured, and continued on her trek to Harry. He was looking for her as well, and they met before she had gone too far.

He asked her where Ron was. And – had she been crying? What was wrong? What had happened?

Her peripheral vision caught Lavender and Parvati giggling furiously in the corner. Her head hurt, and Gryffindors' livid scarlet somehow irritated the ache. Damn Dumbledore, damn everyone for leaving _her_ to be the bearer of catastrophic news.

"Hermione?"

For a second, she thought she might slide into a black faint. She seized Harry's shoulder, and he immediately adjusted himself in support of her weight.

"Hermione?!"

Now there were faint traces of panic evident in his tone. She steadied herself, realizing that Harry deserved to hear before it was common knowledge.

"Come with me," she said, and tried to lead him back up the stairs to the less chaotic dormitory. He didn't budge.

"Hermione, **_what's happened?_**"

"Come on, Harry." The tears began to tug at her voice again, and so Harry followed her.

Inside the dorms, Ron was still asleep. It was then that Harry took her hand in urgency and asked her who it had been; he had pieced the puzzle together, as she had before the Quidditch match.

"It was – God, Harry, it was Fred and George."

She swore to herself then, and later, that she would never forget Harry's reaction. He merely bowed his head and studied the carpet without quite seeing it for exactly ten seconds. When he looked up, she would have assumed he was twice his age if she hadn't known better. There were pools in his eyes behind the glasses, making them shine with twice the brilliance, but she knew he wouldn't allow himself to break composure. He didn't look grief-stricken or shocked; he just looked _beaten._

"Where's Ginny?" 

Hermione swallowed a substantial bulge in her throat. "The hospital wing. She fainted."

Harry nodded curtly. "How's Ron taking it?" 

"He was – not good. White and shaking and..."

"God, I should have been here." Harry was scratching the back of his neck and seemed to have forgotten Hermione completely. 

"Harry, you can't possibly find a way to blame this on yourself, too." He glowered, and she immediately regretted her words. "I mean, it wasn't – you were on the Quidditch field. You couldn't have known."

"I shouldn't have _been _on the Quidditch field – God, Dumbledore should've told me..." 

"Harry –"

"Forget it." He appeared to have remembered that Ron wasn't awake, and lowered his voice again. "Have you gotten anything from Mrs. Weasley yet?"

"No, nothing yet." Hermione's breath caught as she imagined Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and how they must have felt then.

"There'll probably be something soon, then." 

"Yeah." 

"So I guess... there's nothing left to do but wait." 

"Harry..."

"I'm okay."

"You're not."

He ignored her and fell down on his bed. Because she didn't know how to deal with all of this at once, she leaned back against the pillows by Ron's side and wished she could sleep.

* * * * *

Hours faded away in time with his breathing. She wondered about the substance of his dreams; she very much hoped he was in a place free from these shackles of agony and anguish and anxiety, if only for a few hours. But just in case, she didn't want to leave him. 

Hermione opted to draw the curtains around the four-poster before any of the other boys entered the dormitory, so that she could stay there. She knew it was awfully indecent, that Parvati and Lavender would have a field day with this, but she couldn't make herself care. If Harry thought she was crazy, if he even noticed at all, he didn't say anything. 

As it turned out, her decision was rather a wise one. At about two in the morning, Ron began to thrash and swing his arms wildly, fairly beating the mattress. Hermione and Harry were instantly there to wake him.

"Ron... Ron, wake UP, Ron..."

"Hey. Hey, wake up. Ron, it's a dream. Ron?" Harry began to shake his friend, who put up a hand and knocked off Harry's glasses. 

"Auuugh, _Ron_... I can't _see_!"

"Wha... huh?" 

Harry began to feel around on the ground with his hands, making him look rather like a particularly gawky space alien sending out probes, while Hermione blearily explained the situation as best she could to a groggy Ron. 

"You were having a nightmare and hitting things. You knocked Harry's glasses off his face just now." 

"Oh. Did I hit you?"

For a single passing minute, she didn't quite trust her voice. "No." 

"What are you doing here now, anyway? These are the _boy's_ dorms, Hermione, and there are _boys_ up here now!" 

"Well, I, uh..."

"She wanted to make sure you didn't do what you just did, and hurt yourself, or wake everybody up," clarified Harry from the floor. 

"Oh." Ron looked as though he wanted to go right back to sleep, nightmares or no. "Thanks." 

She nodded, quite relieved, and scanned the carpet for Harry's glasses. 

"Harry, they're over there to your left," she hissed. 

"Over where?" 

She quickly hopped off the mattress and picked up the glasses. Thankfully, they hadn't been scratched, and she handed them to a grateful Harry. Two beds over, Seamus Finnigan began to mumble about the Fighting Irish. Harry and Hermione exchanged looks. 

"I'm going downstairs," said Harry.

"Yeah, me too," agreed Ron. "I couldn't get back to sleep even if I tried, anyhow." 

Hermione silently consented and followed her boys down to the common room, where they collapsed on couches. Harry, for reasons she didn't comprehend, made certain Hermione was sandwiched between Ron and himself. 

They didn't talk. Towards dawn, Harry and Ron played a very listless game of chess. Harry won, for once, but he didn't count it as a true conquest. Hermione just sat, and watched, and saw them both struggling not to cry, and said nothing.

* * * * *

The morning saw Ginny's release from the hospital wing and subsequent return to the common room. Despite the fact that it was Saturday and two-thirds of the Gryffindor students were scattered about the area, Ron gave his sister a long hug as soon as she entered through the portrait hole. She sniffled modestly into his shoulder but otherwise refused to cry, and sat pale and motionless on the couch for most of the day. Hermione took to patting her shoulder in (what she hoped was) a comforting way, whereas Harry frequently asked if she was all right. Ginny thought this an extraordinarily stupid question, but didn't say so. 

Around eight o'clock, Hermes appeared at the window bearing a letter from Mrs. Weasley, as Harry had predicted. It read as follows:

__

Dear Ron and Ginny, 

I assume, by now, that Dumbledore has already spoken with you and delivered the news of your brothers. Your father and I are so terribly sorry not to have been there, and told you ourselves, but it truly couldn't be helped. We trusted Dumbledore to give you the message as well or better than we could have. 

The funeral will be tomorrow evening. Obviously, you'll have to come home for that; Dumbledore says you can stay here for as long as you like, and your homework will be owled. We consider Harry and Hermione to be members of the family and so naturally, if they wish to come as well, they're more than welcome here. We're coming to pick you up at five o'clock today, so please be ready. 

Love, 

Mum and Dad

* * * * *

The sight of the normally upbeat Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looking so forlorn, nearly sent Hermione over the edge. Mrs. Weasley's eyes were rimmed with red, in stark contrast to her alabaster features. Although she was trying valiantly to project something like self-possession, her hands were constantly quivering. Mr. Weasley stared off in the distance, stumbled over words, and generally looked the picture of a grief-stricken father. 

Mrs. Weasley hugged her children, Harry and Hermione each in turn, before following her husband to have a short but excruciating conversation with Professor Dumbledore. Sympathies were offered, details were ironed, and through the fireplace they went.

* * * * *

Since the Weasleys had seven children, it was difficult for anyone to remember a time when the Burrow had been quiet, cold, or unpleasant. The death of Fred and George, however, seemed to have brought out the worst in everything. Ron thought wryly that it was only in their absence that things could ever be calm, and they probably wouldn't have had it any other way.

Percy had barricaded himself in his room, where nobody thought to bother him; Bill and Charlie hadn't yet arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley promptly excused themselves to the kitchen, to write letters to people who needed to be informed. Mr. Weasley had gotten five days off from the Ministry in order to make arrangements and get himself in order. 

Hermione was quick to stash her things in Ginny's room and leave, since it was painfully apparent that Ginny wanted and needed solitude. Truth be told, Hermione thought she could probably use some of the same. This was tense and stifling and more than she could handle.

She grabbed a sweater and left through the back door to walk around the garden. The air was crisp, but not nearly as chilly as the house had been. It didn't really matter. 

She thought to herself that the Burrow in autumn was breathtaking; the trees were painted in strawberry and ginger and apricot for miles. It seemed wrong though, to see such beauty under such circumstances. It seemed unjust that anything should be beautiful anymore_. _

With some effort, Hermione managed to redirect her line of thought to Ron. He was worrying her more than anything now, after all – as if there was ever a time when he didn't. 

But this was suddenly too serious, the stakes far higher than they had ever been when it was just him and her and a lot of emotion. Because she'd always had these feelings for him, and sometimes they were powerful enough to frighten her despite the fact that she had seen far more frightening things in her seventeen years; still, she could never have told him then. She was too afraid of his reaction and the consequences of trying to drag him into something he probably didn't want. 

And now his brothers were dead, and he needed some comfort, and she was the closest thing within reach. It made her feel cheap and used, but she thought that maybe she loved him and that all he had to do, really, was ask her. It scared her that she didn't have the self-will to keep herself from being a diversion. 

So he had kissed her, and she had kissed him back, and then she had, amazingly, stopped him. And Fred and George were dead, and the leaves were falling, and the world might as well have been shot all to hell.

She didn't know that Harry had finally fallen asleep, or that Ron was watching from her an above window. And because, although she didn't know it, she was mistaken in her perceptions of his motives, he ran down to catch her.

* * * * *

"Hey, Hermione, wait up!" he called. She half turned and waited, surprised. He got to her quickly.

"Hey," he panted.

"Hey."

"What're you doing?"

"Walking. No offense, but your house is a little eerie right now."

"None taken." She resumed her course and he followed, both of them directionless. 

"Where's Harry?"

"He's practically passed out on the bed in there." 

"I don't blame him." 

He looked at her with concern. "And you, Hermione, you must be exhausted..."

"No, I'm fine," she said, although the dark circles under her eyes belied her words.

"I don't think so," he said, characteristically stubborn. "You haven't slept since –"

"I'm _fine. _And you?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly _fine._" His tone was dangerously caustic, and pretty much anyone but her would've discontinued the conversation. 

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm?"

He absently ran a hand through his hair. "What do you think?"

"I think... I don't know what I think, anymore." She sighed. 

"Me neither." They stopped walking on a small hill, not too far from the house. The sun was barely beginning to set, streaking the pale sky with pink crystal and amethyst. It was a picturesque scene belonging to another time entirely, a time when "romance" could actually have meant something for the two of them.

"Look," he said, turning to her, "_please _just come inside, okay? Get some sleep, and it'll make me happy." 

"Well of course that would be nice, except that Ginny's in our room, probably bawling her eyes out, and I'm going to leave her be." 

Ron didn't miss a beat. "Then you can come and sleep with Harry and me." 

She arched an eyebrow. "You know how incredibly bad that sounded...?" 

"Yes, but you know what I mean. C'mon Hermione."

"Only if you promise to get some rest too. Okay?" 

"Okay." 

She'd always known when he was being sincere, because his eyes revealed him. She'd always been a sucker for him like that. 

* * * * *

"Ron," she said, noting Harry's position, "I am not sleeping in your bed _with you._"

"Really, Hermione? 'Cause, you know, I thought maybe I could get some action. No time like the present, hey sweetheart?" She flinched; his tone was laced with annoyance, and he was right. Why was she jumping to sexually-charged conclusions and reading all his comments as innuendo? Just because he'd kissed her didn't mean his brothers weren't dead and he wasn't still _Ron_, after all. 

"Ron –" 

"Right, so I'll sleep on the floor then." 

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Hermione, get in the bed." 

"No."

"Yes."

"No." 

"Fine, then what do you suggest? Because you need to sleep, I need to sleep, Harry needs to sleep, Ginny needs to cry and there are only so many available rooms in this house!" 

This was not the time to pull out the defense mechanisms and worry about how not to fall in love with him. She was so concerned about what would happen if she gave herself free reign, that she was exerting far too much control. She blinked.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." 

Ron's ears began to blaze. "....Okay."

He flopped on his back, and carefully, Hermione adjusted to be beside him. They were only inches apart. Ron took a deep, shaky breath. Hermione closed her eyes and lapsed into a rich, dreamless sleep in seconds.

* * * * *


	3. Chimera

****

BLUES

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Don't own them, wish I did.

Author's Note: Anybody want to play a drinking game? One drink for every time the (very tired, very insomnia-stricken) author makes a reference to sleeping in this chapter. *sigh* I'm sorry. Thank you for reading! And really, truly, I LOVE you people who are reviewing! [Michael Jackson] You rocked my world, you know you did, and everything I own I give... [/MJ] And now that I've thoroughly scared all of you...

* * * * *

Hermione had long ago informed Ron that if he embodied any of the seven deadly sins, it was wrath. He responded with an assertion that she must be vanity, thus causing her to slap him and have "Express Disapproval Of Everything Ron Does Without Actually Talking To Him" Week.

What he should have done was laugh, because she had been right and he knew it. He still knew it, but for all his experiences with rage, he had neverbeen _this _angry. The forsaken potential of the future spurred him to molten fury; he thought that maybe if he could manage to capture and strangle at least ten Death Eaters, he could regain his sanity. That particular avenue of revenge wasn't exactly free at the moment, though.

Besides, there were other aspects of his life that presently deserved and required his undivided attention. One of these slumbered angelically beside him.

Her breathing was shallow but regulated; her hair cascaded past her shoulders in enchanting small ringlets. He knew her better than to visualize a halo, but ultimately, perhaps it was knowing her so well that made him think she might just be sanctified.

Either way, he had to divert his eyes. He had started to think that she was his strongest tie to emotion, and that had to end; he was becoming a basket-case, and all he wanted was to drown in a lack of sensation. He could never do that if Hermione was there. Even if he didn't experience microscopic jolts to the interior of his body every time she walked into a room – even if arguing with her didn't feel, sometimes, like flying – she would never allow him to stop believing. Her loyalty to his idealism was her greatest gift.

It would not do to ruminate on romantic possibilities and sentimental fantasylands; that would not be his expression of gratitude.

They would survive this, he vowed. He wasn't going to collapse at her feet, nor anyone else's; their seventh year was NOT going to be overshadowed by death and destruction. Maybe for _once, _he could be the stalwart champion, the binding force of collective dreams. He looked at Harry and thought, _the championship has its side effects, doesn't it?_

There was a fragment of history when Harry was a Boy – barely – and he had Lived. That painful rebirth existed still, not only in society's subconscious, but in Harry's as well – so powerless was the hero to banish his own ghosts.

There was a fragment of history – more recent than Harry's – when Ron was a boy and heard his parents arguing themselves hoarse. Dimly, he realized that they had been fighting about expenses; this was the first time he knew what Poor really was. His mother began crying, and then Percy discovered Ron eavesdropping and drew him into another room.

Somewhere between time and endless might-have-beens, the two boys found each other and were enemies by circumstance. Ron had always feared that he and Harry would be possessed by those demons; he wondered how the struggles of the past affected the identities of the future.

There was also a fragment of history when Hermione was just a little girl; how often did he forget that, blinded as he was by her projected maturity? He had been the catalyst that sent her sobbing to a toilet with homesickness and regret; trolls and obnoxious boys sought her, and all she wanted was to go HOME.

He believed that in an unexpressed alternate universe, the little boy who had been Ron tried to lead her someplace safe; he couldn't, because he was unable to find that someplace. The present, nearly adult Ron was haunted by the failure that never had been.

* * * * *

"Mmphugh."

He shifted and surveyed the maker of this unearthly sound with amusement.

"Mmm...Ron."

"That's my name."

"Ron!" She clearly hadn't meant to speak the first time.

"Hermione!"

"What time is it?"

"You really need to get your own watch," he replied, glancing at his own. "It is now half past eight."

"Mmphugh."

"We've established that already."

"Huh?"

"Boy, you can be fun when you wake up."

"I want to... ugh. Need to go downstairs. Help your mum with dinner."

"Shh, no you don't. I'll go."

"No, I need to –"

"Stay here. I'll go fix you something."

"I don't want anything, but she needs –"

"I'll fix her something too. Okay?"

"I'm coming with you."

"Then I'm not going."

She produced a tiny, exasperated sound in the back of her throat. "_Ron_..."

"Oh, go on, let me take care of something by myself for once."

"While I just sit here? No, I don't think so."

"Go back to sleep." He made a move to rise.

"I can't now. I am done sleeping. All the sleep that is in my body has been slept."

"You have a very odd pattern of speech when you're tired. I know you well. I recognize it."

"I do not. Stop being stupid and let me go."

"If Harry – who is a pretty heavy sleeper, but we still should keep our voices down – if Harry woke up right now and wanted to go cook for my mum, do you think I would let him?"

"Probably not."

"Do you think I'm going to let you?"

"Yes."

"Your logic, though flawed, is fun to watch. You didn't get any sleep at all last night, correct?"

"Well, no, but –"

"And you haven't eaten anything for twenty-four hours, yes?"

"Um... yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He deftly flicked his wrist in Hermione's direction; with a few well-chosen words, she fell back into the siesta from which she had arisen. Satisfied, he replaced his wand, and the pseudo-cheerfulness underlying his features abruptly dropped.

He stood in the center of the room and watched his best friends sleep. He felt a strong urge to make a very loud noise, because the Burrow without them seemed so extremely wrong on so many levels.

Instead, he walked as quietly as possible to the door.

* * * * *

Molly was practically catatonic when her youngest son found her.

"Mum?"

"Mm."

"Mum?"

"Mmm. Hi, honey."

"Wanna stop looking at the wall now?"

"Sorry, honey. How are you doing? Are Harry and Hermione comfortable?"

"Yeah, they're okay. How about you?"

"Oh, you know, I'm just so busy! There's your cousins to inform, and Alicia and Angelina and Bruce and Valeria and –"

"Mum," he interrupted.

"– and Lee and, oh, Oliver Wood will want to hear, he was always so –"

"_Mum_," Ron tried again.

She stopped again and sighed. "Sorry, honey. Anyway, I must get back to –"

"Have you eaten anything? Have you even slept since... then?"

"Well, no, of course not, I haven't had time!"

"Where's Dad?"

"He went out to check the spot where we're going to bury – he went out to check the cemetery, you know, we have one just off the –"

"I know. When did he leave?"

"Oh, about half an hour ago."

"He took his wand, right?"

"I should imagine so."

Good. Omnipresence might be the one thing Ron couldn't acquire to protect his family.

"All right, good. Now, what would you like to eat?"

"I couldn't possibly eat right –"

"You wouldn't want to pass out during the funeral tomorrow, would you?"

Mrs. Weasley appeared vaguely horrified at the thought. "Well, uh... no, I suppose not..."

"How about some soup? I know you like soup."

"Soup would be fine, dear. Thank you."

"No problem." Luckily, soup was one of the few meals Ron knew he could actually prepare with a decent success rate.

He searched the cabinets and eventually located a massive pot, which he filled with water and set to boiling on the stove. Meanwhile, he continued gently prodding his mother to conversation.

"Do you think that possibly there could be some other way to notify all these people that won't require a legion of owls?"

"I... well, we could get a few of them through the fireplace..."

"Maybe when Bill and Charlie get here, they could help you with that."

"Oh no, I couldn't ask them to –"

"You don't have to, because I will."

"Ron!"

"Shh, Mum. Everything is going to be just fine. Okay?"

"Okay." Through a veil of remorse, Molly Weasley saw her brave youngest son and realized for the first time how _very_ much he resembled his father. Not like Fred and George; they had always looked more like her...

Everything was going to be just fine. Of course, of course it would.

* * * * *

Ron's soup did not turn out badly. First, he ladled some into a caramel-colored bowl for his mother; he sat it in front of her with a cup of chamomile tea and a piece of toast. He then proceeded to hover inconspicuously around her for several minutes, ensuring that she at least _tried _to absorb some nutrition.

He secured a tray with four more of the exact same meal and levitated it ahead of him.

"Percy?" he called through the door. Percy did not react. Ron knocked with considerable force and yet heard no movement. "Perce, if you don't answer, I'm going in regardless of whatever charms you have on the lock."

"What do you want?"

"I have some soup."

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

"I have toast, too. And tea."

"Again, I'm not hungry, thank you."

"It's _chamomile_ tea."

"Let me reiterate: I am not –"

"Open the damn door. You're going to eat this if I have to Stun you and –"

"Fine, hold on."

Ron could hear Percy's raspy grumbling as he scuffled with the lock and emerged. 

"Thanks," he said for the third time. Ron nodded and continued his ascent to Ginny's room.

* * * * *

__

...warm balmy humid sunbeams glaring flaring flames...

Hermione was floating breathlessly in a dreamlike crystallization of beauty. Everything... so gorgeous... and not real. Where was Real? She wanted Real. 

__

...violets roses daisies marigolds sunflowers lilacs camellias...

The world blossomed in front of her –

__

...shines shimmers sparkles...

– and it was so pretty –

__

...soft smooth velvet silk satin chenille...

– and so very like a drug –

__

...twirling whirling turning spinning spirals...

– and yet she didn't want to be there. Why not?

__

...voices she could hear them voices so familiar ringing singing choking...

Somewhere above her was a beating, tingling rhapsody of black. Pain waited to thrash her and make her alive; there was also a red-haired boy, but all she remembered were his freckles. They seemed to be dotting the plains around her – or maybe those were dancing house elves. Oh, well.

__

...i should have known...

What was that? Who was that?

__

...i had a bad feeling that day, remember?...

Someone close, someone memorable, someone guilt-ridden.

__

...you couldn't have known you couldn't have changed anything...

And there was a female voice, more delicate and sad.

__

...but i did know ginny i did know and i am not weak...

Hermione felt instinctually the need to rise up and speak to the boy. She tried. She couldn't. And as a third voice merged with the enveloping susurrus of running water and rushing breezes, she collapsed.

* * * * *

Ron had seen no one in Ginny's room. He shrugged and continued to his and Harry's quarters, where he discovered her sitting on the bed with a quite awake, distraught-looking Harry.

"Hey, guys, I brought you some food."

"Oh, Ron." Her eyes were swollen and encircled with a fierce pink, but other than that, she looked normal and tiny. "Thank you."

"Right. How're you doing?"

"I'm fine, fine." She took the soup he offered her. Harry did likewise but with no apparent intention of actually eating it. Finally, though, he spoke.

"Hermione's sleeping awfully heavily over there. I, uh, Ginny was in the hallway and overheard me having a nightmare, but she –" he indicated Hermione "– didn't even stir."

"That's because I charmed her," said Ron, resting the tray on a nearby table.

"You _what_?" snapped Ginny.

"Isn't that illegal?" Harry wondered.

"Well, erm, _technically_ it is."

"Ron!"

"Where did you learn that, anyway?"

"Ah... George taught me. It was the spell he and Fred used on the Catnap Crystals, remember those?"

"The ones they left on Flitwick's desk?" asked Ginny.

"And then he slept for half a class period," recalled Harry.

"Yeah, those are the ones," Ron confirmed. "Anyway... I hope I said the spell correctly."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Will she wake up on her own?"

"I don't know. I kinda wanted her to sleep for longer than this, but she needs to eat. She hasn't had anything all day."

"Neither has anyone else in this house," Ginny reminded him. "Well, except for me, because they wouldn't let me leave the hospital wing until I did..."

Ron shot her a look that clearly declared, _But Hermione is my charge and I'm going to take care of her._ Ginny accepted this and shook Hermione's shoulder, quietly calling her name.

* * * * *

Five minutes later, they determined that Hermione would have to wake up independently.

"Nice going, Ron."

"Shut up, Ginny. She needed her sleep, as do you."

She regarded him warily. "You're not going to curse me too, right?"

"No, I'm not."

"Good."

* * * * *

Thirty minutes later, Charlie arrived. Bill followed shortly thereafter. Mrs. Weasley offered them the stew Ron had made, and the three of them set about notifying the twins' friends as quickly as possible.

Mr. Weasley wandered in after an hour. He was pale. Charlie gave him a bowl of soup and sent him to bed.

Meanwhile, Ron had tried shaking, screaming, and even singing to Hermione's limp body. She didn't move. 

"At least she's breathing," said Harry. 

"Gee, I don't know, it would've been pretty convenient for me to kill her so we could bury _three_ people tomorrow, don't you think?" barked Ron.

This caused Ginny to cry. She ran to her room. Harry glared at Ron.

__

Wake up, Hermione, please...?

* * * * *


	4. Childish Things

****

BLUES

Rating: Still PG-13

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the Bible, which is going to be quoted in this chapter. (First Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen, in case you're wondering.)

Author's Note: Wow, thank you all for the reviews... you're so nice! (And Rocio's mother says there are no more nice people in the world...) I hope this chapter doesn't prove to be too trite/boring for you... I honestly didn't know what I was going to write until I wrote it, which is a great feeling, but if it sucks then tell me! :) Oh, one more thing: I hope I don't offend anyone with the biblical reference – I picked it for the power and significance of the words, not for any ulterior motives to lure you to religion, or whatever. Now...

* * * * *

"I just don't think you had to snap at her like that."

"She's MY sister, okay?"

"I know that, but I'm saying that maybe you get a little forgetful of -"

"Harry. We are not going to talk about this tonight. You can take issue with _my_ treatment of _my_ little sister tomorrow, and that's fine. But not right now."

Harry said nothing, only nodded. Ron apprehended the jade gaze for a second, then dropped it and went back to studying the prostrate young woman on his bed.

"They dump pots of water on them in Muggle cartoons," Harry piped up helpfully.

"As much as I think Hermione's had a dunking coming to her for a long time, this is probably not the most opportune moment for that."

"Yeah, probably not. Maybe we should ask your parents about it."

"Are you _crazy_? They're tired and stressed and my mum is about to cry herself to schizophrenia. I do not think _so_."

"Maybe Percy would know something."

At this, Ron had to express his dubious amusement. "Percy? Like he would know anything except how many years on Magical Probation I'd get for casting the spell in the first place."

"But..."

"What?"

"Well, it just seems like, since Percy was always the butt of the twins' jokes, he might understand the spells a little better than we do."

"Well... I suppose that's right. God, Harry, I better not have screwed this up."

Harry had lost both the will and energy to be comforting. They headed for Percy's room without a word exchanged.

* * * * *

"What in bloody hell do you want _now_?"

Harry and Ron's jaws plummeted, suspended in the territory between "shock" and "hysteria" at hearing decorous, respectable Percy respond in such a... _coarse_ manner.

"We, er, need to ask you something," tried Ron impatiently. "Involving Hermione. And a sleeping spell. Which hypothetically I may have cast on her and hypothetically may have misused. And hypothetically she might not be waking up like she's supposed to."

"Ron, you idiot!" came Percy's terse and – Harry couldn't help thinking correct – response. "Those spells are illegal to start with, and –" the door swished ajar with great spirit "– a horrific violation of –"

"Percy, I beg you to believe that I don't care about the _consequences_. I need the _reversion_. Is there a set time she stays asleep, or do I have to wake her somehow? What do I do? Is it possible I could have accidentally made her comatose?"

"Where did you get this spell?"

"Huh?"

"Where did you learn it? What spell is it exactly?"

"_Dormir Embrassius. _George taught me in fifth year when Hermione was studying so hard for her O.W.L. tests; he was afraid she'd burn herself out and I'd need to cast it on her."

A superbly peculiar phenomenon occurred; it was a happening prophesied in legend, an event long awaited by the denizens of the Burrow, for at that moment... Percy laughed.

"HA ha ha ha ha... oh, my... burn herself out, indeed! Ha ha ha ha..."

"What're you on about, you stiff-necked prat?" Ron demanded.

"My, they would have loved this..." Percy continued wildly. "Couldn't resist one last joke, could you, brothers? I only wonder where you learned the spell..." The lines enclosing Percy's sanity appeared to be blurring.

"_Percy_?" tried Harry.

"Tell me what it is, right now, or I'll –" threatened Ron. Percy's manic chuckling subsided in favor of his old formality.

"Oh, I'll tell you, all right, but you won't like it."

"Just go on," Ron encouraged.

"George taught you a highly advanced illegal charm; I'm only amazed you could make it work, seeing as you've never been incredibly gifted in that area."

Ron uncharacteristically ignored this subtle insult. "And?"

"You never actually saw him exercise it on anyone, did you?"

"Well, no. He told me that they used it on the Catnap Crystals."

"Undoubtedly they used a variation of it, but not that exact enchantment, no."

"Get to the point."

"George didn't really have Hermione's health in mind when he taught you that spell, although I suppose it could've been a secondary consideration."

"What did he think he was doing, then?"

"It's an ancient spell, a modified version of which was used by witches and wizards in the old days as a sort of – entertainment device. It was eventually outlawed because they would cast it on Muggles, and word would spread, especially after a couple of the poor magic-less fools got themselves killed trying to break it, and then it was greatly romanticized in –"

"I don't need a bloody history lesson!"

"Fine. Well, what it boils down to is that the person who casts the spell has to kiss his or her victim in order to remove it."

Ron tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry and this only irritated him further. "W... Wh... **WHAT?**"

"Harry, you came from the Muggle world. Do you remember their story of Sleeping Beauty?" Percy continued upon his cultural seminar, now that Ron was stricken in alarm.

Harry was snickering violently and trying to camouflage it, so he had trouble answering. "Yep, I definitely do. Thanks, Percy."

"Right." Percy slapped his brother's back reassuringly and returned to the morose sanctum of quiet within his room.

* * * * *

Oh no, oh no, oh **NO WAY **could Ron do this.

He wanted very much to hunt down George and commit seriously brutal acts of torture upon him, until he remembered that his brother was already dead. 

__

Just do it and be done. Pressing your lips to her stiff, inactive ones for a nanosecond is not going to make you spontaneously combust with passion. It'll be fine. It's your own fault for taking care of her against her will, anyway.

He sighed and followed a still-covertly-laughing Harry back to their room. They stood together in the doorway and eyed Hermione. Ron's grimace very much resembled the way Snape had looked in the presence of Hagrid's magical pastel bunnies.

"Well? Aren't you going to..." trailed Harry suggestively.

"Yeah, yeah. Yeah."

"D'you want me to leave and give you two a little privacy?"

Yes. "_No. _Um, whatever you want, Harry."

"Oh, okay, I'll just stand here then."

It was amazing that Harry's mischievousness chose to surface now. Amazing, and regrettable.

Ron summoned his Gryffindor courage and strode across the room. He knelt with an expression Harry decided was enraptured and terrified; he grasped her shoulders firmly, leaned over, and brushed his lips with hers lightly, uncertainly, like a whisper of terribly, deliciously forbidden confidence. He waited and watched her. And...

* * * * *

She flew toward the surface, absorbing momentum, and everything was cold and shining, and from this jeweled winter she arose and washed on a shore into warm brown eyes.

"Rrrgh...er...ahem...Ron?"

Ron was on his knees beside her with a death grip on her shoulders, looking alternately shocked and relieved and... something else unidentifiable. She barely registered that he was blushing.

"Hermione? Are you okay?"

"Um... yes, I think I am. What on Earth did you _do_?"

"Er. Well."

"He put a Sleeping Charm on you," chirped Harry from the doorway. He was happier – at least more entertained – than he'd been since Before It Had Happened.

This was unquestionably one of those Before and After events about which people are always talking. Of course, Harry's life was just an unbroken series of them; Hermione wondered how he ever managed to be upset about anything.

"Ron!"

"I'm really sorry." He truly looked it, too. "I just wanted..."

"What?"

Maybe his reluctance was the product of Harry's unwavering presence, but he got to his feet instead of answering her. "Could you do me a favor and smooth things out with Ginny for me? I was a bit... uh... harsh, sarcastic, to her, earlier, because I was worried that, uh, I'd messed up the spell somehow. I didn't mean to disturb her."

"Okay, then." Hermione rolled off the mattress with some effort and brushed past Ron and Harry into the hallway. "Oh – goodnight," she called back.

"'Night, Hermione," they chorused. If she'd closed her eyes, it might have been a second of Hogwarts.

* * * * *

Hermione was standing at Ginny's window in the morning, fully groomed and dressed in her black school robes. Her back was turned to him, and the door was open; Ron ambled in and cleared his throat.

"Good morning."

Her hair rustled softly as she turned and said wryly, "I wouldn't exactly characterize it as 'good.'"

"I was being optimistic."

"Ah. Where's Harry?"

"Getting dressed. Where's Ginny?"

"Bathroom."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

He took one long step closer, not enough to bridge the distance but within arm's length. _Arm's length, _she thought, _and still so far away. _Bittersweet irony colored everything between and around them, and all she wanted was to be blind to it.

They looked at each other like two desperate prisoners on opposite sides of an inflexible glass wall. She was about to say something, anything at all, when Ginny burst in the room. 

Her presence itself evoked images of distress, all flowers tinged with brown and oxen beaten to their knees. Her hair was impeccably combed and straightened like limp rods of fire, and her back was drawn up straight like her mother taught her to walk with _Hogwarts: A History _balancing precariously on her head. She was put together and breaking within, which Ron knew by one glance.

"Ginny, how are you?"

"As well as could be expected," she said, averting her eyes. "Where's Harry?"

"Right here," Harry said from the doorway. 

In the struggle toward maturity, there are antagonists and then there are allies. Each is special in its own role, because adolescence is a much more frantic, secret war than any with heavy machinery and drilling and yelling and screams in the climax of battle. Adolescence is the devils of childhood and adulthood, all closing in blistering pursuit on an uninformed and unsophisticated civilian. The allies in this are priceless and never forgotten.

Before, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had all been individual soldiers or maybe mercenaries. Standing in that room that day, the four became an army. Unspoken understanding flooded them, and they shouldered their burdens like veterans before marching resolutely to their very first battle together.

* * * * *

From the Weasley house, past approximately half a mile of dust and fallen leaves reclines the old Weasley cemetery. It is the consequence of grief and ages, but within it floats forsaken devotion like an invisible blanket. Hermione thought that she felt the force of mourning for every other life lost; she thought she felt their spirits. She dismissed it, though, in favor of staring at Ron. He looked like he wanted to throw himself into the ground with the coffins of his brothers, which Arthur Weasley and Albus Dumbledore were lowering with their wands. The procession of various Weasleys and old Hogwarts companions stood watching sullenly, some of them crying. Alicia Spinnet was sobbing, a high shrill sound that rose up and shattered the quiet like a thin piece of glass.

The wood touched the earth and Arthur asked Albus to say a few words. He nodded, sighed, straightened, and stood before the bereaved.

"A very wise person once said something which had a ring of truth that can be felt even now, through our grief and our sorrow. I memorized it in youth, and I will say it to you now."

Even the weeping quieted in response, although a few sniffles punctuated Dumbledore's speech every now and then. Mrs. Weasley had all but lost consciousness in her husband's arms. Hermione thought it was the saddest, most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels," began Dumbledore, "but have not love, I have become a sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.'"

Rain began to mist over the party.

"'And though I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all mysteries and knowledge – and though I have all faith, so that I could move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.'"

Hermione looked over at Ron, who was on her right. He was crying. She lost it, released her self-control and inhibitions, and she cried with him. He looked up and caught the sight of her; it seemed to be too much for him. He gasped and wheezed and tried to stop and couldn't, helpless to the cataract of his melancholy; she reached over and grasped his hand. The looked ahead together.

"'And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned in sacrifice, but have not love, it profits me nothing.'"

Ginny occupied herself by studying everybody else. She noticed that Aunt Virgil was wearing a gloomy wine color instead of black, that Angelina's eyes were closed, that Harry's shoulders had gone lax. When he didn't make the usual effort to align them perfectly, there was a deep indentation between the blades. She saw Hermione reach for her brother's hand and thought, _Thank God, they at least have that._

"'Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up.'"

Percy looked like he was choking. Bill had bowed his head, and Charlie was gripping his robes with such tenacity that Ginny wasn't sure the wrinkle would ever disappear.

"'Love does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil.'"

The word "evil" reminded Harry sharply of Voldemort. Some dark, highly sensitive muscle inside him clenched and writhed and longed to abandon restraint.

"Love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, endures all things. Love never fails."

Ron's hand tightened in Hermione's. She couldn't tell if it was involuntary or on purpose, but she squeezed back.

"'But where there are prophesies, they will fail. Where there are tongues, they will cease. Where there is knowledge, it will vanish away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will be done away.'"

The calmness of distance washed away. Two tears trickled their well-worn path down Ginny's cheek.

"'When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put childish things away.'"

__

Childish things, mused Hermione. _Like steadfast, lovelorn pining for your best friend?_

Then she forgot about that when she remembered that Fred and George had never really gotten to be men... _until they died. They died like men._

"'For we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face-to-face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.'"

Harry shook his head slightly, as if thinking rationally about the loss of it all. Actually, he was plotting his vengeance. He saw it in his mind and heard shrieking and thrashing and moaning and **dying** and felt satisfaction, which frightened him into not thinking anymore at all.

"'And now abide faith, hope, and love, but the greatest of these –'" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled sadly "'–is love.'"

* * * * *


	5. Helpless

****

BLUES

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I'm Rocio Senalda, a fifteen-year-old pseudo-author who has to make up fake names for herself on the Internet in order to write strange, escapist fantasies about being a wizard. She's J.K. Rowling. Remind me, who owns all the HP characters? I'm confused.

Author's Note: This is a short chapter, I know, and it might seem a little off-kilter because it never switches scenery. I hope it isn't horrid. :)

* * * * *

The relatives and friends Apparated back to their homes. Most of them left food, for which Ron was especially grateful.

But, he was also confused. The worst possible thing one can do when one is confused is to go and visit a teenage girl, especially one with regards to whom one has romantic aspirations.

Ron went to go and visit Hermione.

He found her in Ginny's room, but Ginny was inexplicably not there. She had folded her knees up to her chest and bent her head down, embracing it with her arms and weeping bitterly. Water dripped off of her and onto the surrounding cotton sheets. She didn't detect his presence, and he didn't really want to go in there – but what choice did he have? What choice did he ever have? He had never been the type of guy to hang around outside a doorway rather than enter, especially where Hermione was concerned. He wasn't going to let this newfound sense of desire and belonging intimidate him.

And, in more ways than one, he'd gone too far to retreat.

"Hermione."

Her head snapped so rapidly he was momentarily afraid that she'd develop whiplash. "Ron?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you keep getting to me in my moments of reverie?" she asked weakly, swiping at her eyes and trying to cover her vulnerability. He wasn't fooled, of course.

There was a short minute when she thought he wouldn't answer, that he was ignoring her; he persisted in looking at her expressionlessly, which she reviled because it was so incredibly unlike Ron. Normally, she could read him like a book – like her old, battered copy of _Hogwarts: A History._

"Take a guess," he finally said.

She feigned contemplation. "You're a sadist?" This, the banter, the faux insults – these were the roles they could always rely upon, even when everything collapsed gracelessly around them.

"Far from it. The opposite of it, actually."

"You're as clear as pumpkin juice."

"I came to see if you were all right." It wasn't entirely a lie, he supposed.

"Oh." And without further answering him, she stood and walked over to the window. She leaned her body into the wall, sensed the cool surface meld with her drenched clothing, wondered why she didn't feel anything. "It's almost dark outside."

He blinked at the variation of topic. "It's going to storm."

"I suppose. It's been an unusually rainy October."

"Unusually rainy," he repeated mechanically.

"Yeah. D'you ever remember it storming this much?"

In his mind, there was a faded visual of her, figuratively walking down a dusty road away from him and off into a proverbial sunset alone. Every comment on the weather, every second she wouldn't meet his eyes edged the distance farther. An emotional haze was obscuring her from his view, and as she started to vanish, he couldn't think of anything to stop her. He had vague, resistant wonderings: Was this really who they were? Ron and Hermione didn't sit here and have these futile conversations about nothing when all this **something** stood in between them. Ron and Hermione were pals. Ron and Hermione looked out for each other, and looked out for Harry, and right now, Ron and Hermione weren't doing too much of either. 

"No," he said softly. "I don't remember anything like this. Are you going to look at me, Hermione?"

"Why? Have you gotten a new haircut or something?" This was a frail retort, and the shakiness of her voice denoted that she knew it. 

"No. But just... look at me, and let me know you're still – here." 

She turned on him with watery eyes that made his knees tremble, though he would never have admitted it. 

"Yes," she replied, not even bothering to pretend she didn't understand. "I'm still here."

"Good." To himself, and under his breath, "I need you to be." 

"And are you still here, Ron?" 

Ha. No. As if. Innumerable galaxies away. She had no idea. 

But then, she just might. 

"I'm not here, I'm in this other surreal universe where my brothers are dead and the rest of the world is dominated by a seventy-year-old Slytherin outcast on a power trip, and people bow to him and call him 'Master' and do all his dirty deeds for him, and where my entire family transfigured into robots overnight, and where someone I love is constantly crying." 

The 'someone I love' thing had apparently gone right over her head, or perhaps she had chosen to take it ambiguously to mean Ginny, or his mother, or something. Either way, Hermione paid it no mind – which was good, because he'd been referring to her, and he hadn't meant to say it. 

Two days ago, she would have hugged him. But two days ago, she'd done just that, and he had kissed her, and she didn't think she could stomach that right now. So she said, "I have no idea what to say to you."

"Anything. Just say anything." 

There was a slight pause, whilst she suppressed a nervous reflex to touch him by returning to her perch on the edge of the bed. 

"Do you want me to tell you it's going to turn out all right?"

"The Hermione I know would probably have done something similar."

"But what if she lied?" She smiled a strange, jaded smile he'd never seen her wear before. He didn't particularly think it favored her complexion.

"I don't believe it would be a lie."

"You don't?"

"No. Well, sort of. Let me rephrase: I _think_ the world will be fine, and I _know_ you will be."

"What about _you_?"

"That would be the part that isn't quite as crystal." He proffered a disarming grin, the likes of which even Lockhart couldn't conquer. She wasn't fooled, of course.

"Oh, Ron."

"What?"

"Don't say that."

"Don't say 'what'?"

"Don't say that you're not going to be okay. Don't even think it, because you'll be just fine."

He stood about a foot in front of her and looked down seriously. "And who's going to offer me a warrant on that? Are you?"

There were so many undercurrents to this game; it was like a two-step. This question, that answer, that question, this answer, question, answer – did it ever end? Did the questions ever expire? What would happen when they couldn't even find answers anymore?

"Yes, if I have to."

"Well, you can't. You can't guarantee anything. If life could be protected like that, then someone would have hell to pay for terminating Fred and George's contract."

"Ron... Ron, what's wrong?"

Ron was clutching his forehead in much the same way Harry often did. The pigment was totally sapped from his skin, and he was perspiring heavily.

"My... head hurts."

"Here, lie down." She gently shoved him down on her bed and placed a hand to his skin. "My God, you're burning up!"

Tears were actually glinting in his eyes. Hermione was genuinely alarmed. 

"Ugh...ohhh," moaned Ron. 

"Ron, talk to me, what's wrong?" What just happened? It wasn't – it couldn't be – Voldemort had better not –

__

Not going to consider that. Concentrate on Ron. Yes. Good.

"I'm really hot," he said weakly. His head jerked. She didn't know anything about seizures, and she vehemently hoped he wasn't having one.

She tried a cooling spell and a healing spell and several other spells whose functions she couldn't even remember, all to no effect. Ron started ripping at his own clothes, but his arms were shuddering erratically and seemed drained of all their former strength. Hermione's wand knocked the floor as she went to help him.

Ginny and Harry must've heard the harsh, brittle yelps emitted by Hermione's panicked throat, because they appeared in the room's entrance.

"Hermione?"

"What's going on?"

"I, I don't know! Go get Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, **anybody**! And some ice water!"

They ran.

* * * * *

Author's Note: (Yeah, another one.) Don't worry - this cliffhanger is different than when Hermione was unconscious on Ron's bed. I promise! I just wanted to tell you that now so that you aren't like, "Yeah, Rocio's a manipulative bitch, nothing's gonna happen..." :P Oh, has anyone found any part of this story confusing - and if so, what part(s)? I got a review to that effect, and I want to fix it so that no one is at all lost, but I'm not really sure how because, being the author, I get it all just fine. Comments? Thanks! And have a nice day!


	6. Shallow Resolutions

****

BLUES

Rating: PG-13. I wonder if we'll ever get any higher than that. What do you guys think?

Disclaimer: I give up – they're MINE, they're ALL mine, and YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM! :P

Author's Note: I'm tired and sick and my legs hurt because I went to the Relay for Life thing on Friday night. It is under influence of these symptoms that this chapter was written. *sigh* More from me at the end. (I know you can't wait.)

* * * * *

Hot wrath surged through him; an uncontrollable platinum blaze fostered its ire behind his eyes and he couldn't think and all he felt was pain and what was happening? His limp muscles wouldn't work, they were burnt too badly. This must be Hell.

Something soft, cold, wet parted the flames and overrode the heat. He may or may not have audibly expressed his relief; he thought he did, but the pervasive inferno was roaring in his ears and he couldn't really hear. He relished the respite, leaned into it, bent and concentrated his entire body on it.

This was a bit difficult, because it was roaming restlessly over his torso, probably trying to accomplish something but he couldn't figure what until his shirt came off over his head. He realized that it must be a pair of hands. Following this insight was another that hit him in a breathless hiss, like the elusive dream that finally floats to the tip of the brain: _Hermione._ He tried to say her name but couldn't work it out, and it didn't matter because blessedly cool liquid flowed into the recesses of his mouth and took his words down with it. The spasms subsided but he didn't really notice, since her hands were on his neck, feeling his pulse.

The hazing began to clear. He sensed that there were several more people leaning over him. Water must be dripping off one of them – Hermione, he remembered, she'd been in wet clothes – and onto his parched skin, which absorbed it eagerly.

He was afraid to open his eyes or speak; if he could just lie here and not move, not at all, then maybe _it_ wouldn't return.

* * * * *

"I think he's okay now," said Mrs. Weasley, relieved. "It looks like he's just sleeping."

Hermione swallowed, nodded, didn't take her eyes off Ron's bare chest – as if watching his serene breathing would insure its security.

"What happened?" demanded Harry.

"I don't know!" she told him exasperatedly. "He was just standing there talking to me and then he started clutching his forehand and he was all pale and he shook and I didn't know what to do – I tried a bunch of spells, I don't remember which ones, and then you were there."

"That doesn't sound like anything I've read about," said Bill. Charlie nodded. Mr. Weasley sighed in perplexed agreement.

"Maybe we should consult Headmaster Dumbledore," suggested Percy. He was standing in the doorway, with one reassuring and barely visible hand on his Ginny's back. She was absolutely colorless.

"Yes, yes, Percy," Mr. Weasley nodded distractedly. "I'll go and do that now."

He scurried from the room in a flutter of intangible solemnity. Mrs. Weasley looked worriedly after him; Hermione wondered if she herself ever gave Ron sort of look.

"Mrs. Weasley, I can sit here with him until he wakes up again," she offered.

Mrs. Weasley glanced at Hermione appraisingly. "Yes, that'll be fine, dear. Just... come and get me when he wakes, okay?"

"Of course."

With the phantom of a reminiscing smirk, Mrs. Weasley followed shortly behind her husband. Bill, Charlie, and Percy trailed wordlessly after her. 

"I'm going to stay with you," Harry said quietly, almost as though he didn't want to intrude. Hermione was swamped with the reasons why he was her other best friend. 

"Of course you are, Harry. Come here. You too, Ginny. Let's all sit down and rest."

They sank onto the bed opposite Ron. Ginny folded her legs under her; Harry hung his over the side. Hermione, between them, propped her back against the wall and felt the vertebrae align.

They scrutinized Ron's sleeping form and speculated on the spells, curses, charms, illnesses, ailments, demons that could have possessed him. He didn't wake for hours, and yet none of them noticed the twinges in their unmoving muscles. They weren't even tired. They had sacrificed themselves momentarily for the guardianship of their best friend and brother. There was a certain solace in that.

* * * * *

The voices reverberated in his unconsciousness and sought him, drew him out into the light. 

"Maybe it was just a cold," suggested Harry.

"A cold? Have you ever had a cold that turned your skin into a scorching nightmare and shook you and finally knocked you out?"

"Well. No. But I bet there are viruses like that."

"You think it's a virus?"

"I don't know. What do you think, Ginny?"

"I... don't know. If it is something like that, he would've gotten it from some kind of foreign mosquito, right?"

"Well, probably," said Hermione knowledgably. 

"And there aren't really any mosquitoes around here in October."

"Unless the virus has been in his system for a long time and just stayed dormant until something set it off."

"Ooh. It could do that?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Do you think he could've gotten it in Egypt?"

"It would have had to stay in his system for years!"

"I know." The three turned grim.

After a moment, Ginny wondered, "Shouldn't we take him to a hospital then?"

"Not right now."

"But what if he's –"

"Awake, and listening to every word you say?" finished Ron, sitting up and entering the conversation. Hermione was the first to react.

"Ron! You had me _so worried_!"

"No kidding. How are you?" said Harry.

Ginny merely rose and threw her arms around her brother's neck fiercely. Over her shoulder, Ron said, "I'm fine, I'm _fine_, already."

"You could have fooled me," Hermione told him. "What happened?"

"I don't know, actually. It was really weird, I was just talking to you, and then all of a sudden I got really hot and my head was just searing. It was... hey... wasn't this bedspread a different color?"

Ginny looked at him oddly. "No, it's always been blue."

"That's funny, it looks gray to me."

"How does that look gray? It's really dark, like midnight blue."

"It just... does. Hey. Is that lamp gray?"

"No," said Harry.

"Is it blue?"

"Yes."

"Uh-oh."

"Maybe it's the light," guessed Hermione. "Come on, we have to take you to your mum anyway. Let's go out in the hallway. Can you stand up?"

Irritation bit at Ron's heels like piranhas. "_Yes_, I can _stand._" He stood and followed the others. 

"Okay, do the walls look blue to you? Because that's definitely what color they are," Ginny told him.

"Uh... no. They look gray, just like everything else. Oh, shit."

"Don't swear."

"Hermione..."

"What?"

"Now is not the time to worry about my use of obscenities. Where's Mum?"

"Downstairs. Let's go."

The four trooped to see Ron's mum. Ron blinked energetically the entire route, and still the wall remained gray. The really terrifying thing was, though, that he couldn't remember what it had looked like before.

* * * * *

The situation was explained to Mrs. Weasley, who was intensely worried but relieved to at least have her son in no other way harmed.

"Perhaps you've hit your head on something," she said. "Anyway, all of you, pack up tonight. You're going back to Hogwarts tomorrow, and the first thing you'll do there is visit Madame Pomfrey, Ron."

"_Mum_."

"No '_Mum_' – I've buried two sons today, and I won't bury a third. Anyway. The Headmaster would also like a word with you. You won't have to attend any classes until Tuesday."

So they packed, and then they slept fitfully at best. Ron, however, was the only one who didn't gain any rest at all.

* * * * *

Author's Note: (Also known as shameless self-promotion for future chapters.) Why can't Ron sleep? And why can't he see anything blue anymore? Was he bitten by some rare, evil Egyptian crawling thing? How worried is Hermione right now? (And if you were her, how worried would _you_ be?) Does Rocio hate Harry so much that she's never going to let him have any significant role in this story? Where the hell is Dumbledore during all this? And, the million-galleon question: Are Ron and Hermione EVER going to just get it _on_ already?

I can't promise anything, but most of the above questions will be answered soon. Yay! (Because, not having written it yet, I'm curious, too.)


	7. The Worthy

****

BLUES

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: They're not mine, and I'm poor.

Author's Note: I have absolutely no medical knowledge and everything that sounds remotely factual in this story is probably something I concocted at three in the morning during a bout of insomnia. Just so you know.

* * * * *

Perplexity shaded the shrewd, rapidly moving orbs that were Madame Pomfrey's eyes. Truthfully, she hadn't the dimmest wisp of a proper idea as to what might be wrong with the poor Weasley child.

Ron had taken to observing the world as though he had never seen it before. Hogwarts seemed so incredibly vacant, hollow, devoid of life or character or optimism. Before it had been his second home, and now it was only his fortress; he didn't feel as if he really had a home any longer, absurd though he knew it was.

There was no warmth here, despite the myriad students who stopped him on the way to the hospital wing. Hermione, Ginny and Harry stood beside him; they were the only people he wanted, but he didn't need them. He didn't need anyone. Look at all those people who had made Fred and George necessary in their daily lives; those people were now shattered. He wasn't going to be one of them.

"I've absolutely no clue," Madame Pomfrey was saying. "But anyway, Professor Dumbledore would like very much to see you four. He left word to send you straight to his office as soon as you were done here... perhaps he'll know. Surely, he will."

Ron heard the conviction ringing in her voice and pitied her for her foolish trust in something so finite as the existence of a hero.

* * * * *

Dumbledore seated his guests opposite his piercing blue eyes, like two azure stilettos whose effect was nullified for Ron. They were an ugly gray for him; without them, Dumbledore merely looked like a powerless old man.

The stillness crackled as Dumbledore cleared his throat. "The first thing I must express to you, again, is how deeply sorry I am for your loss."

"Thank you, Professor," Ginny said softly. 

"Well, it doesn't much help, does it? But, no matter. How are all of you holding up?"

"Fine," the four said in unison. Dumbledore smiled kindly – or perhaps nostalgically.

"Fine? Well, Mr. Weasley, I see that, fortunately, you do appear well. However, I heard that last night..."

"He was having some sort of a seizure," Hermione said. "And now he can't see blue."

"Ah. The color, blue?"

"Yes, sir," Ron answered. "I see gray instead."

"This happened immediately after the... attack?"

"Yes, sir. Madame Pomfrey doesn't understand what might've caused it."

"So when you look at my eyes, you see...?"

"They appear gray, sir."

"I see."

"Yeah, I don't."

Dumbledore suppressed a chuckle at the rapid humor which was so reminiscent of the twins. "Indeed."

There was a pause. "So... do you know what may have happened?" Ginny asked.

"I don't." Hermione felt anticipations drop, then rise again as he continued. "But... I do have a somewhat unlikely opinion. I think you'll agree that an unlikely opinion is most befitting an unlikely circumstance."

Ron nodded. "So, what is it you think, then?"

Without answering, Dumbledore turned his gaze to Ginny. "Miss Weasley," he said, "when you're feeling very angry, what color do you most resemble?"

Ginny looked uncertain for a moment, and then comprehension emerged tangibly on her face. "Oh... red!"

"Yes. And Mr. Potter, when you think of evil, you are reminded of what color?"

"Green," Harry responded dismally. He was thinking of Slytherin.

"Er..." Dumbledore may have been smirking. "...no, that wasn't quite what I was going for. Evil. Death. _Darkness._"

"Black, then."

"Good. But when you think of envy, what color?"

"Green."

"There you go. Now, Miss Granger, when you are feeling very sad, you are said to have a case of the...?"

Hermione's voice was confused but certain of her answer. "Blues."

"Indeed. However, when you think of serenity, happiness, love – what color comes to mind?"

"Er... blue."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. It just always has."

Ron didn't yet grasp what relevance this had to his situation. 

"Something about the way the human brain works," Dumbledore continued. "So very curious – colors make such vivid imprints on our minds. Hospitals are always adorned with subdued pastels in trivial designs like flowers and butterflies; it's a method of calming patients. But if you've ever noticed, advertisements are always in intense, dazzling neon. Why, do you suppose, Miss Weasley?"

"To catch the attention of the consumers, I suppose."

"Quite right you are. But also to subtly excite the senses. The blood rushes just a instant quicker when the vision is assaulted by brightness. When you read the name on the advertisement, you associate it with the very, very, very slight jolt of your nerves."

"Wow," said Harry.

"Indeed. A tricky business, is the world. But... I've strayed quite off-subject, which is unforgivable, because you must be exhausted."

"Yes, we are, but we can't sleep until some answers make themselves clear," Hermione told him. Ron glanced at her, startled. Her loyalty had always taken him by surprise, though he had long known that she was truly a devotee to everything she though right and good with the world. He was only astounded that she believed him to be one of those things, one of the worthy.

In any case, Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, yes. Ron?"

Ron started. Dumbledore didn't often address students by their first names. "Yes, sir?"

"I can't offer you any full explanation yet; I'll need to do quite a bit of research and observation."

"But you think that...?"

"You're experiencing a particularly traumatic event in your life at this time. My hypothesis is that this loss of color is completely psychological. The things you identify as peaceful or happy are replaced with gray... apathy."

"But then why isn't Ginny experiencing this? Why doesn't this happen to everyone who's suffered a loss?" Hermione wondered.

"That, I don't know yet. As I said, it's only a theory, and an improbable one at that. But... I thought... even a doubtful supposition might provide some comfort in such an abyss of uncertainty."

"Thank you, sir," Ron said.

"You're quite welcome. Now, all of you – you have strict instructions to report to me immediately if you experience any symptoms similar to Ron's. Ron, if anything further happens, I mean it, I want to hear from you right then. I don't care if it's three in the morning; I'm quite an insomniac as it is."

"Yes, sir," the students chimed.

"Very good. You may adjourn to the common rooms. I would quite encourage that you rest."

Dumbledore saw them to the door with a benevolent expression, and Ron's affection for the man surged against his will.

* * * * *

They said nothing as they plodded wearily back to the common room. The Fat Lady tried to express her sympathy, but Ron merely nodded and told her the password.

Hermione wasn't sure, but she thought she saw Ginny raise her eyebrows and flick her head in a very strange way. Immediately after, she and Harry were miraculously overcome with fatigue and retired to their respective dormitories.

Ron had flopped on a couch in front of the fire. His shoulders had gone flaccid; his head had folded itself so that his chin was resting on his chest.

"Ron?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Tired."

"Did you sleep at all last night?" She shifted to observe him. He certainly hadn't; the sacks under his eyes were puffy and alarming in a way they hadn't been before.

"A little."

She didn't want to argue, and so she forced herself to accept that. "All right." She moved slowly to sit beside him. She felt as though he were a wild animal, spurred to viciousness by sudden movements and the least sign of a threat.

When he felt her weight sink into the cushion, he said, "Go get some rest, Hermione. Unpack or... go see Crookshanks. What did you do with Crookshanks, anyway?"

"I left him with Parvati."

Ron snorted humorlessly. "I'm sure he's got a tiny pink bow in his hair, and probably some little kitty earrings."

"I very much doubt that."

"I just want to sit here. You don't have to keep watching me like this."

"But I want to."

"But I don't need you."

She felt herself stung. She'd never thought he'd _needed_ her; she just... sometimes... wished that he would. Nevertheless... 

"I don't care whether you do or not."

He elevated his head fully, but still didn't look at her. "Why? Don't I matter?"

She hesitated only long enough to swallow her inhibitions. "You matter just a little bit too much."

__

Now he looked at her. She really wished he wouldn't. He was shocked, and for her life, she wasn't sure if it was in a good or bad way.

"Hermione..."

"Yeah?"

"What's that mean?"

"It means exactly what I said."

"That doesn't really clarify a whole lot, and I don't want to... I don't want to play games today."

"It means that I couldn't let you sit here like this even if I wanted to do it, which I don't. Actually, I'm not sure where Harry and Ginny went, because it doesn't seem very characteristic of them to want to leave you, either."

He was silent for a few minutes, and despite the fact that she felt like white-hot pinpricks were striking all over her forearms, she complied with this decision for as long as she could.

"And also, Ron," she continued, "I can't stand to see you in the sort of pain you felt last night. I can't – I couldn't **_STAND_** it. You know what I mean, I'm sure you do. When you see Harry gripping his scar, doesn't it just sort of boil through you and make you so angry that you just want to scream but you can't because you've lost your breath?"

"You're telling me you feel this way about Harry, too? Because Hermione, he really needs someone more than I do right now."

"He wasn't having seizures last night."

"Which means nothing, as I'm not having them now."

"I love Harry and he knows it. But I..."

"But you what?"

She said nothing. She was puzzled at herself; she could admit to what she felt for Harry without batting an eyelash. Why was her relationship with Ron so much more complex?

She knew the answer. She just wasn't sure she was ready for it.

"Hermione?"

"Mmm-hmm?"

"You've gone and piqued my curiosity. You know I hate that."

Deep, cold breath. "I don't think I can get up and go to Harry."

"Why not?"

"...I...." She searched his eyes, but she didn't know what she wanted to find, since he was more confused than she. "I don't know. I just don't think I can."

With a deftness that would have impressed the most lithe of dancers, Ron was on his feet instantly. He grabbed the first thing that he saw – which happened to be a first year's textbook – and flung it across the room. "**_Damnit, _**Hermione!"

The book somersaulted several times; they watched as the pages flapped and flailed and fluttered through the air with a kind of ridiculous prettiness, before the spine connected with the wall in a terrible THWACK.

"Ron!"

"Oh, don't say my name like_ that_. You know you're only making this more complicated!"

"I don't know what –"

"_Yes,_ you _do_, you have to know it. You can't tell me that you don't feel this, can you?"

She stood, mainly because she didn't like it when he could look down on her. "Feel... what? What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about!"

"No, tell me what you mean!"

He was nearly inclined to chuck something again when he realized that maybe she just wanted a confirmation of her own emotions; maybe she just wanted him to jump first.

Maybe, if he jumped first, he could catch her when she fell. So he resolved to be as honest as he could.

"You can't tell me," he started, "that you don't feel something for me. We've been friends for _years_, for _seven years_. I can tell you that I grew to love you like a brother, to admire you as the most bloody brilliant person I've ever known, and to tolerate your neurotic need to be right about _every single thing_. I've never told you because that just isn't the way I am, which you know."

Hermione, for her part, was not in a position to speak very well, and he took this as a good sign.

"But you must know, you have to have realized, that somewhere along the line you went and did some stupid female thing with your hair or something and it made me acknowledge that you are, in fact, a girl. Or more accurately, _were _a girl. You're a woman now. You just don't know it." Despite the fact that his voice crackled like a bad radio, he continued. "And I could tell you that I looked at your smile one day and saw stars, or that I was struck by the way the moonlight played in your eyes, or something idiotic like that – you would love to hear it but you might know that it was never true. It's just that you – your presence and your friendship and pretty much everything about you, it's all a sustaining thing for me. I don't need you, I won't need you, and you don't and won't need me. But you make me feel things, crazy things that make me think I know the meaning of life, if only for this tiny little fraction of a moment. And... I don't know, I guess what I'm trying to say is, I have a really, really, huge, horrendous crush on you, and it's about damn time I let it go and said so."

Of course, by the time he finished this, she was crying. Of course, by the time he noticed her tears, he felt awful. The lubricant of necessity that had helped him to slide all those words out – that was gone, and he was frozen. Did he really just say all that? Oh, God. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

"_Ron_," she wailed, and snuffled awkwardly for several minutes in the quiet room. 

"Um," he stammered, "um, _accio_, handkerchief."

Something white soared into his hand, from a direction he didn't see. He handed it to her and she took it gratefully, sobbing all the harder. When finally she seemed to have calmed, he said, "Look, I didn't mean to upset you –"

"You didn't!" she exclaimed. "I'm just horribly emotional right now, you know, and... yes, well, you know." He gathered from her embarrassment that certain hormones were playing a very unwelcome role in this production, and he nodded while blushing himself.

"Anyway, Ron, I... look, I just want to be here for you. The only thing I want in this world right now, the _only_ thing, is to be able to say something to help you – and Harry, and Ginny, and everybody else, of course, but mainly you. And it scares me, but I want so very violently to make you happy. I would sacrifice myself if I had to, and I would bleed o I think I _would_ do anything, and I _can_ do nothing, and I just..."

"Oh, Hermione... Didn't you hear a damn word I just said? C'mere."

She obeyed and he enfolded her in his long, freckled arms. "All you ever had to do," he said in her ear, "is be you. And believe."

"Believe in...what?"

__

In God, in life, in love, in the future and the possibility that one day we'll be happy. In me, that I might be whole again someday, that I might be able to feel more than just sorrow and extreme euphoria (or whatever I should call the thing that you bring me). And always, always, Hermione, in yourself.

He didn't say any of this, at least not out loud, because he was kissing her as he thought it.

* * * * *

Author's Note: Oh my God, I cannot believe I just wrote that. What's up with Ron's psychological lack of blue? Is it really psychological? Does it even make sense? Where the hell did Harry and Ginny go? And HELLO, what's up with the kissing? What does this mean?

Yay, I get to go write another chapter, and answer all of these questions!


End file.
